Jarheads
by SnappleAddict
Summary: While the Viper pilots of the Colonial Fleet are in the spot light, there's an underappreciated group of enlisted putting their lives on the line to ensure the survival of the Fleet. They are the Colonial Marines. Goes from Mini to the end of the series.
1. Miniseries, Part 1

Miniseries, Night One

A/N: This fic follows the other half of the Colonials' continuous struggle for survival, the Colonial Marines. I've done my best to make sure that the canon is represented as accurately as possible, including scenes from the show that Marines were present at. Thanks to en. and members. for providing episode scripts. Useful stuff, check it out. There is some slight AU, but nothing so noticeable. Also I would like to thank the Abbot of Beregost and his Gunny Sims fics for their inspiration on my own.

The last remaining 31 Colonial Marines of the battlestar _Galactica_'s compliment stood smartly at attention as their C.O., Lieutenant Xavier Ming, and Gunnery Sergeants Terry Burrell and Rob Crawford prepared to take the last roll before the decommissioning of the antique warship.

"I don't want any monkeying around," Lt. Ming warned, pushing his glasses up. "Commander Adama is due to begin his speech in a couple of minutes, so let's get this over with." Ming had been strongly disliked by the enlisted Marines. He was an overzealous and ambitious officer who detested his stay aboard the no-action _Galactica_. Ming had made everyone miserable, with constant drilling and spit-and-shine policy.

"Over with? Shouldn't he say something inspiring, or something?" Private First Class Nathan Franco whispered to the man in front of him.

"Shut up, Franco," Sgt. Omar Fischer warned aside of him. Franco sighed, but remained at attention. Gunny Crawford was reading down the roll.

"Collins."

"Here."

"Collishaw."

"Here, Gunny."

"Danelli."

"Here."

And so on, and so forth though each of the Marines. Franco had never been to a decommissioning, and this was probably the only chance he'd get. _Galactica_ was going to end up either a museum or a luxury liner for Caprica Cruise Lines. And that prick Ming was going to have them at roll, or doing some other such trivial task. He knew it, deep in his gut.

"As you all know," Ming said clearing his throat. "As you all know, the _Galactica _and her crew served with distinction in the Cylon War. She was the pride of the fleet, and today we will bid farewell to this proud battlestar." He looked around the barracks, as if remembering fond moments with his troops. Franco had begun to think his gut was wrong.

"However, the state of this ship is deplorable! Look at this! Lockers open, personal items strewn all about! It's disgraceful, both to Commander Adama and to the _Galactica_. Fleet reporters and tourists are onboard for the ceremony, and I will NOT have any part of this ship under my command in such a frakking mess."

Gunny Burrell looked at Ming as if he were crazy. "Sir, I doubt that anybody will be paying a visit down here. It's a historic event. Why not let the men enjoy the ceremony and clean up after? It's their last day here."

"No Gunny. This is not some raggedy-ass civilian ship which will be run all to shit. You and Gunny Crawford will make sure that no one leaves this barracks before it is squared away. Do I make my self clear?"

"Yes sir," Crawford and Burrell replied. Ming left the Marines to their task, accompanied by his lackies, Sgt. Richard and Sgt. Anderson.

"You have got to be frakking kidding me!" PFC Pete Bonnington exclaimed when Ming sealed the hatch. "Nobody else would pull this kind of shit!" Several other Marines voiced their agreement.

"Stow your bellyaching, Marine!" Crawford snapped. "The ceremony is in ten minutes. The faster you get done, the faster you get out of here."

"You heard the Gunny," Franco's best friend, Corporal Joe Pike said. Pike was an exceptionally skilled NCO. Built like a sprinter, Pike was tall, thin, and quiet, but respected by the men under his command. "Get it done."

Bonnington grumbled, but picked up a wrinkled pair of trousers and folded them. The 27 other corporals-and-below Marines got into it, moving with admirable speed. Staff Sergeant Hadrian checked and secured the arms the Marines had stored in the barracks, while SSgt. Mathias supervised the enlisted.

Despite the Marines best efforts, they simply could not get done in time for Adama. Gunny Crawford stopped them and turned on the ship's intercom, allowing his men to listen to the address. If Lt. Ming had seen the Gunny using the riot bullhorn to amplify the tiny com speaker, he probably would have burst all the blood vessels in his face at the misuse of Corps equipment.

"Can you believe this? We don't even get to see it, Pike. We can't be more than ten minutes away from the frakking flight pod, and we don't get to see it. Frakking ridiculous," Franco complained.

"Sssh. I can't hear with your blubbering, Franco."

"The Cylon War is long over," Adama's voice began from the intercom. "Yet we must not forget the reasons why so many sacrificed so much in the cause of freedom. The cost of wearing the uniform can be high, but...sometimes its too high."

"You know, when we fought the Cylons, we did it to save ourselves from extinction. But we never answered the question, why? Why are we as a people worth saving? We still commit murder because of greed, spite, jealousy. And we still visit all of our sins upon our children. We refuse to accept the responsibility for anything that we've done. Like we did with the Cylons. We decided to play God, create life. When theat life turned against us, we comforted ourselves in the knowledge that it really wasn't our fault, not really. You cannot play god then wash your hands of the things that you've created. Sooner or later, the day comes when you can't hide from the things that you've done anymore."

It was quiet in the barracks. Franco was stunned. Was something wrong with everybody today, that they had to have a defeatist or miserable attitude? Adama had made it sound like the Colonials' time was running short...not likely considering that the new Viper VII was supposed to easily smoke two dozen Raiders by itself. In formation...shieet.

Pike patted him on the back. "There, now you heard your speech. I'm gonna go see if I can call my sister. Take my shift?" Pike's sister was a gunner on the _Mercury_, his next duty post.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever," Franco said, distracted. There was something off here, he _knew _it.

Pike took an empty terminal and dialed the _Mercury_. Because of the distance, it took several minutes for the _Mercury_ to receive the signals that _Galactica_ was sending, and vice versa. A tired-looking communications specialist appeared on Pike's screen.

"CS 2nd Class Marks, Battlestar _Mercury_. Go ahead, _Galactica_."

"This is Corporal Joseph Pike. I'm looking for Gunner's Mate Samantha Pike. She should be off duty by now."

The tech looked unimpressed. "Look, Corporal. We've been having buggy reports from all decks for the past twenty minutes. Almost all our equipment is malfunctioning, and the Old Man wants me up on A Deck to replace all of the wiring in Section 4. ALL of it. And you want me to find one rating so you can chitchat?"

"Nonono. I'm transferring to _Mercury_ in a couple of days. This is strictly business."

"Strictly business, huh? Alright, I'll see if I can get a hold of her," Marks said grudgingly.

The screen went blank for a few moments before the _Mercury_'s comm room once again filled his view, this time with Sam in the tech's chair.

"Joe?"

"Hey Sam. How it goes?"

"I'm fine, Joe. Good to see you! What's up?"

"Oh, not much, not much. Shit details, patrols, routine stuff mostly."

"Sounds fun. You were so right when you said I should have enlisted in the Corps."

"Yeah, shut up. So, well, I've been thinking about Mom and Dad's anniversary. You go on shore leave in three days, I'm due off the _Galactica_ in four. Maybe we could, you know?"

Sam looked at him incredulously. "I have target acquisition on all our battery computers going haywire, and you want to talk about throwing a shindig for Mom and Dad? Joe, now is not the best time."

"Come on, Sam. You haven't seen me in two years."

"We talk almost every week, you dunce."

"You know what I mean. Not being several thousand kilometers out from each other."

Sam was about to reply when flashing red lights and klaxons ripped through her section. She looked up, surprised. Cries of 'battle stations!' filled the background.

"What's going on?"

"I dunno," Sam said. The Tac officer was announcing several that the approaching DRADIS contacts didn't match anything in the database. The last thing Pike saw was Sam turning to leave her terminal. Static worked its way into the small picture, fuzzing to nothingness.

Pike nearly jumped out of his skin when _Galactica_'s own action stations alert sounded. Curious crew, who had never experienced a real drill, fell into the same state of shock that Pike did at the accompanying message.

"This is the Commander," Cmdr. Adama announced over the ship-wide. "Moments ago, this ship received word that an attack against our home worlds is underway. We do not know the size or the disposition or the strength of the enemy forces. But all indications point to a massive assault against Colonial defenses. Admiral Nigala has taken personal command of the fleet aboard the battlestar _Atlantia_, following complete destruction of Picon Fleet Headquarters in the first wave of the attacks...As of this moment, we are at war." Stunned silence accompanied the declaration of war.

"WAR!" Pike yelled, running out of the comm room. "Move! Hop to it!"

The crewmen were spurred into action. They raced to their stations, some manning point-defense turrets that had no ammunition, others donning fire-fighting equipment in preparation for the upcoming battle.

Pike double-timed it back to the barracks, boots pounding on the deck. He knocked several crewmen out of his way, at one point knocking a pretty female deckhand flat on her ass. He reached the barracks just in time to join Franco, Dubois, and Sykes as thye began to move to their team's position. The seven four-man fire teams on _Galactica_ were each assigned a point most likely to be boarded by Cylons during a battle. In the case of Pike's team, it was just outside of the starboard flight pod.

"What the frak is going on, Corp?" Sykes asked, handing Pike his helmet and armored vest. Franco tossed him one of the outdated MN-23 rifles that the Marines had been issued. Despite its compactness, invaluable in close-corridors, the small 4.4x50mm FlatHead round that it used was barely sufficient to crack through Centurion armor. Or, at least it was 40 years ago. Now it might not even pierce. Who knew what the toasters had cooked up for this new war?

"War, Sykes," Pike said, snapping his chin-strap into place. "Or haven't you been paying attention?"

"Well, I know that Corporal, but..."

"If you know, don't ask."

"The toasters ain't gonna know what hit 'em," Dubois said, racking his rifle. Franco slapped the back of his helmet. Dubois turned around angrily, but Sykes intervened.

"We're fighting the Cylons, you knuckleheads, not each other."

"Team Two, what's your status, over?" GySgt. Burrell's voice crackled over the radio.

"In position, Gunny, over," Pike said.

"Be aware, a basestar has just jumped into the area. Prepare to repel boarders, over."

"_Vipers are away_."

"Team two wilco, over."

"Vipers?" Franco asked. "I thought they all left for Caprica?"

"What about the Mark IIs?"

"_Lone Raider inbound."_

"Dubois, you twit. They're relics. Museum pieces. We can't fight a war with them."

"We did, once. Each Viper in the museum has a full combat load, and Chief Tyrol kept the reactor rods," Pike said.

"_Galactica, Starbuck. He's trying to transmit a signal to me, doesn't seem to have any effect._"

"_Nuclear missiles detected! Vipers are intercepting."_

Sykes nodded. He patted his own ammo pouches.

"Yeah, so do we. But what about the Galactica?"

The other Marines shifted on their feet, uncomfortable. They had forgotten about the _Galactica_'s empty cannons. She'd have to rely on the Vipers for defense until she was resupplied by an orbital ammo station.

"_Brace for impact, all hands. Missiles incoming_."

Pike grabbed for a handhold, as did Sykes and Franco. Dubois wasn't quick enough and the force of the blast, even though it hit the other side of the ship, threw him from his feet.. He was slammed headfirst into a bulkhead. Pike waited a few seconds for more missiles before checking on Dubois.

"Frakking new guy," Sykes muttered. Only his helmet had prevented Dubois from having his head caved in by a bolt on the bulkhead. Even so, he most likely had a concussion and was out cold. The radio was completely bogged down with chatter, mostly from the port side of the _Galactica_.

"_Firefighting Team Six, the fire is spreading towards your section_."

"_This is Jenkins from Team Four. We've lost Waller and Koning. It's really getting out of hand down here_."

"_Dunno if we can get these guys out, gonna need a corpsman over here._"

"_Frak me! Chief, we can't get out. A bunch of supports just collapsed onto our exit. Can you get somebody down here to cut us out?_"

"_Negative, negative. You're going to need to find another route_."

"What do we do with Dubois?" Franco asked.

"Take him to sickbay. Me an Sykes will hold here."

"Ooh-rah." Franco grunted as he hoisted the unconscious private in a fireman's carry and carried him towards the sickbay.

A series of barely audible thumps sounded, coming from port. Sykes leaned up against a bulkhead, striking an old-style match and lighting a cigarette. Pike shot him a hard look for lighting up during a battle. It was against at least a dozen Corps and Navy regulations. Sykes shrugged in return. "It's the end of days, Corp. Judgement. Might as well go out with calm nerves."

"Belay that talk, Sykes. We're still Marines and we still got a job to do."

"Didn't you just hear that, man? They just spaced an entire section."

"What?"

"I seen it once before. Heard it, really. On the destroyer _Hephaestus. _Ammo mag for one of the big ship guns went off. Big boom. Took out almost the whole fore section. Fires were everywhere, and we had better gear than the _Galactica_. X.O. vented the first half of the ship. Saved it, but we lost a third of the crew. This is worse. This fire is nearer to a big fuel line. That goes, we lose the whole battlestar."

"You're just full of information, aintcha, Sykes? Frak regulations, hey. Gimme one of them smokes."

"Yep."

The two Marines stood their post in silence until Gunny Burrell called them to the barracks to debrief them and fill his men in on their next mission.

Gunny Burrell stood in the barracks, the only one. He had allowed the Marines to sit one their bunks out of consideration of the burden he was about to place on them. Pike, Franco, and Sykes entered, the last team to do so, but Burrell held off reprimands. He faced them.

"Marines," he started. "I'm gonna make this short and simple. As of twenty minutes ago, the 12 Colonies are at war with the Cylons. But you already knew that." He gestured abstractly to port, where the nuke had struck.

"The Colonial Marine Corps had always been called on to defend the interests of the Colonial government and it's people. From the inter-Colony wars to the Cylon War, Marines have shed blood and spilt blood in every armed conflict since our beginnings. Today was no exception. It is my regret to inform you that Lt. Ming, Sgt. Anderson, Sgt. Richards were killed attempting to rescue trapped crewmen in the fire. Gunnery Sergeant Crawford has been honorably discharged from the Corps following a wound that leaves him unfit for active duty. Yes, Private?"

"Sir, how bad is Gunny Crawford that he was discharged?" PFC Griggs asked. A couple others murmured in agreement.

"Bad. Leave it at that. I have a new job for you leathernecks. We've set a course for Ragnar Anchorage to load up on munitions before laying up with the Colonial Fleet above Virgon. Chief Tyrol asked me for volunteers, and I told him the Colonial Marine Corps would be more than happy to lend a hand to quicken the transfer process. The _Galactica _will arrive in 42 minutes. SSgt. Mathias, you will have command of the party, squads 1, 2, and 4. Squad 3 will continue business as usual aboard the ship."

The Marines 'yessir-ed!" enthusiastically. They were going to show those motherfrakking toasters who was boss. It would be a battle for the ages, guns raging and explosions filling the corridors as the great ships waged their space war. Or so they thought.


	2. Miniseries, Part 2

Miniseries, Night Two

A/N: So the _Galactica_ has heard about the Fall of the Colonies, and is now on a course to lay up at Ragnar Anchorage for food, ammunition, and other essential supplies. The Marines have already taken their first casualties, losing their lieutenant, two sergeants, and Gunny Crawford, the Marines' most senior enlisted man.

"Come on, maggots. The sooner, the better," Staff Sergeant Erin Mathias growled at her small contingent of Colonial Marines, 19 Marines in all. They had been assigned, along with most of the deck crew to round up as many supplies, arms, and ammunition as they could for the upcoming battle. The former especially pleased the Marines; all they had were old MN-23 rifles. Short, compact, and nearly worthless against Centurions.

Private First Class Nathan Franco opened a crate of weapons and hefted the latest Corps-issue carbines, the 10x21mm C-3A3. Fully automatic, the 28-round magazine could take down a toaster in seconds. He couldn't wipe the smile off his face.

"Franco!" Mathias bellowed. "Put that weapon back and get to work!"

"Aye, ma'am." Franco gently laid the Cx4 into its padded groove, as though he were dealing with an infant.

"Gods, Franco," Corporal Joe Pike said, neck veins bulging out in strain. "Do you think you could quit fingerfrakking that thing and pick up your end?"

The Marines deposited the carbines by the seal between _Galactica_ and Ragnar Station, where Tyrol's deck crew took over the transfer. The crew picked up the heavy crate and asked for a destination.

"These go to the armory. Well, glad that's done," Franco said, resting beside PFC 'Profile' Wallace, so called because his eyes were extremely sensitive to light and wore big aviator sunglasses at all times. Even in the darkened hanger of Ragnar Station.

Profile nodded, producing a flask from his pocket. He took a sip and coughed. Handing it off to Franco, Profile got back up and joined fellow Marines Cheadle, Shultz, and Bonnington in loading a box of cannon ammunition onto a trolly. More deckhands appeared, taking the rounds deep inside _Galactica_.

Franco grimaced as he drank from Profile's flask. It was home distilled Ambrosia, born two days ago from a combination of ingredients that he didn't want to think about. He passed it to Pike, who was staring off into nothing, probably worried about his sister.

"Hey, man. Look, I'm sure she's fine. It's standard procedure for ships under attack to cut all non-essential comms during a battle."

"Yeah. Maybe," Pike said, but Franco could tell he didn't believe him.

The Chief talked on the radio with Adama for a bit, then motioned some of his crew forward. Tyrol unlocked a door, only to have the barrel of a pistol practically up his nose. Pike acted without thinking, drawing his sidearm and adopting a shooter's stance. Cheadle and Bonnington were seconds behind him, but they all held their fire. Taking a shot at this guy from thirty meters away and there was a risk that _Galactica_'s senior skilled mechanic would end up with his brains splattered on some rating's jumpsuit.

"I am NOT going to jail!" the man with the pistol declared.

Tyrol held up his hands in a peaceful gesture. "Take it easy, buddy. Nobody's taking you to jail...just calm down, ok? We're from the Colonial Fleet. We just came to get some equipment from the station to get back into the fight."

The man narrowed his eyes and his pistol lowered slightly. Slightly. "What fight?"

"There's a war on. Give me your weapon." Tyrol held slowly reached for the pistol.

"I think I'm going to need this, then, if there's a war on. Buddy."

"Lot a good that'll do ya, in space!" Franco called. The man ignored him and continued to squabble with Tyrol.

"I want out of here on a transport, a safe one. Something with an untraceable FTL drive, yes?"

"There's over two thousand people on that ship, so I don't have time to frak around. Hand it over!" Tyrol finally injected the voice of authority that only a senior enlisted man could possess.

The man, who Pike suspected was an arms dealer looking to steal a cozy shipment from the station, flipped the pistol and offered it to the deck chief butt-first. Immediately, Pike and PFC John Macintyre were at the Chief's side, keeping their barrels sighted at the dealer's chest.

"Get his weapon," the Chief ordered. Macintyre stripped the gun from his hand and tucked it into his vest webbing. "If he moves, shoot him."

"Aye, Chief," Pike said coldly.

"Cpl. Pike! Bring that gunrunner over here."

Pike closed his fingers in a vice grip around the prisoner's arm and dragged him towards Mathias at her request. She crossed her arms and glared at the man. Mathias then stepped the side to allow none other than the Old Man, Cmdr. Adama to inspect the prisoner for himself.

Pike rejoined Franco near the ammo crates Profile had been resting on. Three deckhands carrying a munitions box passed them as both Marines leaned forward to hear Adama's conversation with the dealer. He asked if he was an arms dealer, as Pike had suspected.

"People have a right to defend themselves," the man answered with a shrug. "I simply supply the means. Leoben Conoy."

Adama nodded slightly. "You don't look so good, Conoy."

"Allergies," he said, waving his hand dismissively.

"Allergies, my ass," Franco said. "Something is seriously frakking wrong with that guy. Who comes to a secret, near forgotten stockpile now? I mean, now?"

Pike shook his head. "You are just so godsdamned paranoid, Franco. Arms dealers come to arms stockpiles when they think nobody is around because, I dunno, it's illegal perhaps?" Franco had come to be known for his wild conspiracy theories, ranging from the mundane involving a women, to elaborate shadow groups trying to dissolve the Colonial Marine Corps.

"You say that now..." Franco started, but he was interrupted by the sound of metal striking metal. Pike turned to witness the petrified crew that had just passed backing up from a crate marked 'ORDINANCE, HEAVY. SAM HE/DP 90MM ROCKET-PROPELLED'.

"Get back! It's hot!" one of the men yelled, meaning the missile was armed.

Pike tackled a female crewman to shield her with his body, while Franco rolled behind the ammo crate he was sitting on. SSgt. Mathias bellowed for everyone to get to cover. There was a massive explosion that rattled the deck, sending those not already prone sprawling.

"You okay?" Pike asked the woman, Crewman Specialist Seelix.

"Yeah. Thanks."

"No problem."

"_I'm_ in a lot of pain, actually," Franco said. He was still lying by the crate he hid behind. "I think I've got shrapnel in my ass."

"Walk it off, pansy," tough-guy Macintyre sneered at him. "Ya ought to be ashamed of acting so frakkin stupid, diving behind live rounds to escape an explosion. What're you, some kinda dumbass?"

"No," Franco hissed through his teeth. "I've a bleeding ass, with a large chunk of white-hot metal imbedded in my body. Could somebody PLEASE get a corpsman?"

"Everyone alright?" Mathias called, dusting off her fatigues. Her one eye had a small cut under it.

"Franco's bitching about his arse again, but I think everybody else is alright."

"Everybody except the Commander," Chief Tyrol said, pointing at the collapsed bulkhead that Conoy and Adama had leapt into. The missile's explosion had fused the metal debris together, and it didn't look like there was a way to get Adama out without heavy duty cutting equipment. Tyrol banged on the ruined door. "Sir?"

"Chief? Staff Sergeant?" Adama's muffled voice called back. "Get all the bullets and equipment into the ship, and don't spare a man on anything else. We'll go another way. Tell Col. Tigh that he's in charge until I return.

"Understood sir," Mathias said. She leaned into her radio and ordered the Marines in other parts of the station to drop whatever they had and grab the nearest ammo crates. Tyrol did the same with his deckhands.

Pike flexed his bicep. "Time to get back to work, Franco."

"Kay. Seriously, I can't get up," Franco said. Pike, fed up with Franco's whining stormed over and was surprised to see Franco had actually been telling the truth; his right leg was bleeding profusely and his BDU pants had been shredded.

"Gunny," Pike motioned Mathias over and showed her Franco's leg.

"Take him to sickbay, but don't make a big fuss about it," Mathias said. "Just drop him off and get back here ASAP. Shit. This is just what I need."

Doctor Cottle had been less than happy to see Franco, but slapped him on a hospital bed and went to work. Pike in the mean time, returned to a continually growing pile of ammo, spare parts, and manufacturing materials. Mathias seemed to have instilled her special brand of fear into the loading party. The Marines and their Fleet counterparts were bringing the supplies faster than they could be loaded onto the _Galactica_.

"Pike! Quit standing around with your thumb up your ass and get back to work! We got a war to win!"

"Aye ma'am!"

"_All hands, all hands,_" Lt. Gaeta buzzed over the radio. "_Action stations. Large number of unknown DRADIS. Repeat, all hands to action stations. Cylons inbound._"

If the men and women had been motivated before, they were now on the border of fanatical. Marines sprinted onto the battlestar, carrying two, three large crates stacked on top of each other. SSgt. Mathias was ordering everyone to 'pack it in'.

"_CIC, Two Times. I've got Showboat and Chopper ready to scramble in three._"

However to everyone's great relief, Lt. Dualla refined the contacts. "_Negative, Two Times. They're friendly civilians. Colonel, the lead ship is requesting permission to come along side, sir. They're saying the President is aboard._"

"Alright maggots. The President is alive, the frakking moron. Now get to loading! We don't have time to dick around with civies. Profile! I see you slacking over there."

Two more hours passed of the transfer routine, before Adama appeared, carrying the limp body of the arms dealer, Conoy. Conoy's face look smashed in, dripping blood all over the station's deck. Adama looked like he'd been in a fight.

"Sir!" Mathias rushed to the Commander's side. "What happened? Were there more runners? Cheadle, Wenzler! Possible hostiles!" The two closest Marines to Mathias came at her call.

"It wasn't any criminal that attacked me, Gunny Mathias. It was this thing. Conoy. He's a Cylon."

"What!?!"

"They look like us now. Keep that to yourself. Get finished up here, and get back to the ship. Have this brought to Cottle for an autopsy.

Mathias looked to Cheadle, who grimaced and reluctantly took the body from Adama. The last of the ammunition was loaded into the _Galactica_, and Pike and Sykes, who he had not seen since the attack, went to visit Franco in the infirmary.

While Pike and Sykes were busy checking up on Franco, the rest of the Marines returned to the barracks to rest before going to their assigned stations. PFC Richard Cheadle flopped down on his rack, not even bothering to take his gear off.

Just as he was getting relaxing on the stiff, uncomfortable bunk, the intercom cracked to life. "_Security Team Five to the CIC. Security Team Five to the CIC._"

Cheadle's eyes slowly cracked open. He saw Profile waiting for him by the door, holding out a pistol and holster. Cheadle strapped it to his thigh, and exited the barracks with Profile.

"This sucks," Profile said miserably. "We JUST got off."

"Yeah. You have any idea what this is about?"

"Nope."

"It better not be to escort somebody to the brig for insubordination. Do you know why I enlisted in the Corps, Profile?"

"To have sex with semi-attractive female pilots," Profile said, nodding.

"Ye...no. No, you idiot. To kick ass and take names. Not escort Fleet officers to the brig for mouthing off to that rat bastard Tigh."

The two Marines passed relatively few people, and took the deck-to-deck elevator to the B Deck, where the CIC was located. Profile showed his ID to Corporal Clyde Madsen, the CIC guard. Madsen waved them through. Even though they were Marines too, it was procedure to get an ID check before entering the nerve center of a battlestar.

"That's Gaius Baltar in there," Captain Aaron Kelly said, thumbing in the direction of Navigation. Kelly was Fleet, the Landing Signal Officer. In other words, he guided Vipers and Raptors into the flight pods for landing. "He claims that that PR guy, Aaron Doral, is a Cylon. We're taking him to the brig."

"Understood, sir," Cheadle said. He didn't let it show on his face that his mind was about ready to blow out. Cylons? On the gods-frakked bridge of a war ship? How do you not notice that?

Profile blew out his breath, then the three of them entered the CIC, Capt. Kelly in the lead, with Profile and Cheadle flanking him. Doral looked up, confused. Kelly informed him that he was under arrest, and the Marines took an arm in each hand, locking them behind his back.

"See," Cheadle said, guiding the man who didn't feel very much like a chrome-plated killing machine to the elevator. "I told you. Escort to the brig."

"Uh-huh. Captain Kelly?"

"Yes, Private?"

"Your first name's Aaron too, aye?"

"Yeah."

"I wonder if you'll be trouble then." Capt. Kelly looked quizzically at Profile, then decided he was joking and laughed. Profile however, remained silent and stared at Kelly. (Or he seemed to. It was impossible to tell.) "We'll be in touch."

When the small party of Profile, Cheadle, Dr. Baltar, Capt. Kelly, Col. Tigh, and the prisoner Doral reached the ship's brig, Profile unclasped a pouch on his web belt and held up a pair of handcuffs. He motioned for Doral to sit, then locked him to the bars of the cell.

"If he's a Cylon, then why hasn't the storm radiation made him sick by now?" Tigh asked.

"I suppose it takes a while for the affects to become apparent. By the time you'd encountered Leoben, he was already here for several hours."

"I don't suppose it matters to you that I'm human."

"Shut your mouth," Tigh growled at him.

"Yes, I collected random hair samples from everyone in the CIC and subjected them to spectral analysis. Doral's were the only ones that were of a synthetic origin.

"I want everybody aboard the ship screened, Doctor."

Doral stood up, looking squarely at Col. Tigh. "I'm human! I'm from Oasis...it's a small hamlet, a couple of stops from Caprica City. I went to Kobol Colleges, on Gemenon. I studied public relations."

"He's lying," Tigh said after a moment. "He's frakking lying. If he moves, shoot him."

"Aye, sir," Cheadle said. He tapped his ancient Model-K 9mm in its holster.

Tigh, Kelly, and Baltar left the brig, leaving Cheadle and Profile alone with Doral. Cheadle rubbed his eyes tiredly, then sat down on a small bench reserved for guards.

"Hey, as long as I'm thinking of it, where is Cpl. Venner and the rest of the brig rats?"

"Off duty."

"Lucky godsdamned bastards," Cheadle said glumly.

"Feeling down? I could sing a song," Profile offered.

"Please, for the love of Kobol, don't."

Doral looked at them. "You guys believe I'm human, right? I mean, I can't be a Cylon. Right?"

"My judgement is reserved for your autopsy," Profile answered.

"Profile," Cheadle said, exasperated.

"Mm?"

"Could you, just once, just...shut the frak up?"

Profile, oddly enough, didn't say another word. The silence continued for thirty minutes, until Col. Tigh returned, this time with the heavily-armed second half of Cheadle's fire team, Lance Corporal John Collishaw and PFC Harriet Twinam. He nodded when they entered the brig, and saluted Tigh.

"Hatchet-faced Harriet," Profile said, the way he always greeted Twinam.

"Pus-brained Profile," Twinam countered. Although Twinam was a hard-edged, rather stiff Corps 'lifer', meaning that she intended to make the Corps her career, she sometimes exhibited a sense of humor. Very rarely though.

"Knock it off," Collishaw barked. "Doral. Come quietly, and there won't be an issue."

"Where are you taking me?" he asked suspiciously.

"Somewhere more secure," Tigh said. "Adama thinks you're too much of a risk here."

"More secure than this? You gonna throw me in jail? Got a barge floating around?"

"As a matter of fact..."

"You can't do this. I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't do anything wrong!" Doral started to squirm when Profile, Collishaw, and Cheadle unlocked his cuffs and tried to drag him out of the cell. Twinam racked her carbine, and Doral immediately complied.

But as they navigated the prisoner through the bowls of the _Galactica_, Cheadle realized with a start that they weren't heading to the flight pod. Richard Cheadle had been on _Galactica_ for five of the seven years he had been in the Colonial Marines, and recognized that they were going to the hard seal that was still established with Ragnar. The man in his grasp wasn't getting transferred.

He was getting condemned.

Despite the fact that he had three muscular Marines holding him and a fourth Marine with a fully automatic 10mm carbine jabbing his spine, Doral put up a fight once he realized where he was. Cheadle planted his boot on the guy's ass and pushed him forward, finally getting Doral onto Ragnar Anchorage. Doral whipped around, facing his emotionless (for all intents and purposes) executioners.

"You can't leave me here!"

"You've got food, water, all the luxuries of home."

"No, I'm begging you, don't do this. I"m NOT A CYLON!"

"Maybe," Collishaw said coldly. "But we can't take that chance." He stepped back into the seal with the his Marines and Tigh. The heavy doors on the seal closed, first on the station, then _Galactica_'s. The last thing any of them saw of Doral was his pleading, hopeless face. The seal began to retract, and fire team two slowly began walking back to the barracks.

"Sir?" Cheadle said. Tigh turned his head. "I feel like a bastard."

"Sometimes you just have to block out the screams and carry on. That's what my first C.O. told me during the War. We all have to do bastardly things sometimes, son. And I don't think we're done, not by a long shot."

The entire crew of the aging battlestar had been mustered for the memorial service. Not just for the 82 crew and three Marines killed when she had been struck by a missile, but for the entirety of the 12 Colonies. The priestess, Elosha, finished the service, and a round of 'so say we all's" passed through the ranks.

Adama stepped up, in full uniform. He addressed the crew.

"Are they the lucky ones?" he asked of them. "That's what you're thinking isn't it? We're a long way from home. We've jumped well beyond the red line, into uncharted space. Limited supplies, limited fuel. No allies, and now, no hope."

Adama paused, letting the words sink in. This wasn't the inspirational speech Cheadle had hoped for. "Where shall we go? What shall we do? Life here, began out _there_. Those are the first words of the Sacred Scrolls. And they were told to us by the Lords of Kobol, many countless centuries ago. And they made it perfectly clear, that we are not alone in this universe. Elosha, there's a 13th Colony of Humankind, is there not?"

"Yes, the Scrolls tell the 13th tribe left Kobol in the early days. They travelled far and made their home upon a planet called Earth, which circled a distant and unknown star," the priestess answered.

"It's not unknown. I know where it is." THAT got Cheadle's attention. Even Franco, who had been half asleep during the memoriam, snapped his eyes on Adama when he heard that. Disbelief washed through the crowed of enlisted and officers. "The location of Earth was known...only by the senior commanders of the fleet. But it won't be an easy journey! It'll be long, and arduous. But I promise you one thing. On the memory of those lying here before you...we shall find it. And Earth will become our new home. So say we all."

"SO SAY WE ALL!" The crew roared, fresh enthusiasm injected into them by Adama's speech. They were then dismissed, first the Fleet officers, than Gunnery Sergeant Burrell, who 'ayed' and dismissed the Marines who were know under his command. And the Marines of the Battlestar _Galactica_ BS-75's Security Detachment, 1st Platoon, Alpha Company fell into routine with the rest of the Fleet, until an unimportant man took hold of the prison barge and demanded a change in the government. A man by the name of Tom Zarek


	3. Bastille Day

Bastille Day

A/N: I have purposely skipped 33 and Water because I could not stretch the plot to include the Marines at all. Ah, Bastille Day. This was actually one of my favorites from the first season, despite its tempts of action and failure to deliver. Little bit of modification here. Ahem. This is set, I think, seven days after the miniseries, and the day after Sharon Valerii detonated the explosives in Galactica. The Marines are looking for clues to the bomber, with no success, and Capt. Adama has just left with his party to convince the prisoners to assist in refining the ice found at the end of Water.

Corporal Joe Pike combed the arms locker for Deck 12 for the 47th time, searching for some clue as to who had detonated the six G-4 charges in the water tank two days ago. After hours of dusting, printing, and laser-sweeping the tiny storage room. Three lockers to the right, PFC Cameron Sykes was engaged in the same process. To the left, PFC John Macintyre and L/Cpl. Mark Henick. They were filling in for Dubois and Franco, who had both been wounded in some manner.

The blasts had sent shockwaves through the ship, both literally and metaphorically. People were accusing each other of planting the bombs, the fleet was now facing a water shortage, and the task of finding the culprit fell to the Colonial Marines, whose crime-scene investigatory techniques were somewhat nonexistent.

Nothing. Again. No hairs, no finger prints, no leads. SSgt. Hadrian would probably have them do it again anyway; she took her job very seriously. As the _Galacica_'s Master-At-Arms, Hadrian was in charge of internal security. She probably took the loss of the water tanks as personal.

"You got anything?" he asked.

"Nope," Sykes answered. "Not a frakking thing."

"What about you?"

Macintyre grunted. That was most likely a no. Henick pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. "Nothin. Nothin at all. I tell you we're never going to find anything."

"You can all quiet your griping," a voice from behind said. "You'll have plenty of time to do this later. Let's go."

Staff Sergeant Hadrian entered the small arms storeroom. Instead of the beige duty fatigues of a Master-at-Arms, however, Hadrian was wearing standard-issue black ones and a SPIDER III assault vest. She had a quiet presence about her that made the Marines, with the exception of Macintyre who really wanted to get back in a fight, want to search the lockers 40 more times.

Despite the Staff Sergeant's aura, the four men were outranked by her. Pike buttoned up his open jacket and rolled down the sleeves. They would need to head to an armory if this was going where he thought it was. Calling this a small-arms locker was a bit of a misnomer; G-4 plastique, M-1162 ETAP rounds, and other explosives were stored here. The rifles, pistols, machine-pistols, and carbines that normally were stored here had been placed rather randomly in other lockers, the Marine's briefing room, and in the armory located well inside knuckle dragger territory.

"There's been a situation on the _Astral Queen_," Hadrian explained on the way.

"The prison barge?" Pike asked.

"Yes. The prisoners are holding several VIPs hostage, demanding that President Rosalin step down from the Presidency. They're being lead by Zarek."

Sykes almost stopped in his tracks. He, like Tom Zarek was a Sagittaron. Pike watched him closely. The man was on his fire team, and a good Marine, but sometimes people put their beliefs ahead of all else.

"That a problem, PFC?"

"No, Cpl. Pike. It's fine. I haven't seen Mr. Zarek in a while, that's all," Sykes said. A little oddly, perhaps, but he looked normal again.

"Good."

The small group went from Deck 12 to 9, where, amongst other things, the ready room was, and where sixteen other Marines sat or stood, watching as Gunnery Sergeant Burrell was mapping out the _Queen_ on a whiteboard. Sgt. Omar Fischer, Pike's squad leader, nodded at the newcomers.

"Marines," Burrell said. "No time for a welcome. I'm sure SSgt. Hadrian has filled you in to the...situation, if not providing the specifics. The _Queen_ is a short-term prison hauler, with a crew of 21, and currently has 1500 prisoner's in her cells."

"Fifteen minutes ago, Zarek and a few other rabble-rousers staged a riot, and captured Capt. Adama, along with two _Galactica_ crew members and a presidential aide. We suspect that they are armed with only three pistols, but desperate men are innovative men. Expect improv weapons."

"Now, I had devised and drawn out a plan of attack, but since Lt. Ming was killed, there are no officers to lead you boys into battle." Burrell said that somewhat sarcastically. He fully trusted his Marines to use their own wits, instead of being micro-managed by a pilot without any boarding or ground combat experience. "So Col. Tigh has attached Lt. Thrace to this mission. You will follow her orders TO THE LETTER. Lieutenant."

Burrell bowed out of the way, letting Lt. Kara "Starbuck" Thrace take the central area to address the Marines.

"Alright boys. We know that the hostages are going to be executed if we try to do a snatch and grab. Specialist Cally Henderson, Lt. Anastasia Dualla, and a civilian, Billy Keikeya, are being held in separate cells from each other. I'm fairly certain that Capt. Adama and Zarek are together."

"These are cons, not troops. If we kill their leader, it might set them off on a killing frenzy, and we need both them and our people alive to get that water. However, if we kill their leader and breach at the same time, it would probably stun them into submission."

"Squads 1 and 2, you will be the assault force, Wolf. Stand by to breach in here," Burrell said, indicating to a floor-level bulkhead. "And here, behind them. Shultz, Porthos. You will be with the sniper team, Handler, that's fire team two from 3rd Squad."

L/Cpl. John Collishaw raised his hand. "Sir, who's going to be the marksman?"

"I will," Thrace said stepping forward. "I'm the best shot, in or out of the cockpit."

Pike was certain that his jaw hit the floor at that moment. The Marine Corps had always prided itself on its marksmanship and accurate rifle fire. To hear from a pilot, one who had probably never fired anything bigger than her issue sidearm, that she was the best shot on the ship was the closest thing to blasphemy that the corporal could think of.

It was Profile who said what everyone else was thinking. "Sir, I don't think that's right."

"What?"

"I'm pretty sure that Sgt. Fisher is the best shot out of the cockpit, el-tee. He always wins the annual shooting competitions."

"Shooting a target on the range is different than picking off a hostile target before he can shoot you or his hostage."

"All due respect, sir, but shooting a Viper's guns and firing a precision rifle are different matters entirely," Profile pointed out. Thrace was starting to look angry, but then grinned at him.

"I like your style, Marine. Straightforward and honest. You'll just have to trust me."

Profile glared at Starbuck (or perhaps he didn't. Those damn sunglasses.), but seemed slightly more contented. Pike on the other hand, still felt that putting their only sniper rifle in her hands was a huge mistake.

Thrace left the room, leaving only the twenty-man boarding party and their gunnery sergeant. SSgt. Hadrian had left at some point during the briefing. Burrell waiting until the bulkhead sealed shut, then crossed his arms.

"Listen up, and listen close. These aren't a bunch of college kids being held hostage by an over-stressed professor. These are Colonial Fleet crewmen, at gunpoint by a large group of hard-cons, some of whom are in there for murder. But we do need them. That ice ain't gonna mine itself, so keep the killcount to a minimum. I don't want any frak ups. Clear?"

"Ooh-rah!" the Marines replied.

"Good. Lock and load. And good luck."

Cpl. Pike stood, literally shoulder to shoulder with his squad inside the Raptor's tiny bay. The Raptor's pilot, Lt. Emmitt "Sweetness" Jones, Emma to her friends, finished her pre-flight checks and asked if the Marines wanted to listen to anything during the flight.

"I've got a great selection of tunes. 'Caprican Woman', 'Light my Fire', '20 Minutes to Live'. Anything?"

"'Kill Pill'!. Get's us psyched up," Lance Corporal Ryan Collins called. Collins was relatively green, only 19 years old. He'd been promoted to lance shortly before the attack.

Sweetness grinned and nodded. The heart pounding, thumping beat of Kill Pill pulsed from the speaker. Collins rocked with the music, banging his head, and bumping into everyone around him.

"Ow! Knock it off, dammit! Collins!" Pike growled after his and Collins' helmet connected. They had been waiting in the Raptor for twenty minutes to launch, and Collins' clumsy dance was not improving his mood.

"Copy, flight control," Sweetness said. Hopefully into her mike. "Green to launch. Raptor 6 is away, over. Raptors 1 and 275, you are clear."

Pike reached up and grabbed a handhold as the Raptor _whooshed_ out of the flight pod. They were built with functionality in mind, not comfort, so launches always jarred you a bit. Sweetness guided the multi-purpose ship through the fleet and through space, slowing down when a ship shaped rather like a large, misshapen frying pan filled the canopy. The Raptor rotated until it's belly was lined up with the _Queen_.

Sweetness extended the docking skirt, locking it onto the _Queen_'s hull. A few minutes later, she used the skirt's plasma torches to cut through the hull, and gave the Marines a thumbs up. Sgt. Fisher hit the belly hatch release and dropped into the Queen, followed closely by Pike and L/Cpls. Wenzler and Collins.

Pike swept the corridor in front of him with his C-3. The first thing that struck him, besides the lack of contact, was how dimly lit the ship was. What light there was, was harsh and gave off a very institutional feel.

"Clear," he whispered. Wenzler and Collins echoed him. The rest of the boarders jumped down, and Fischer tapped Pike on the shoulder. He radioed the other teams on a secure radio channel.

"Wolf 2 Actual, this is Wolf 1-2. Wolf 1 is in." Pike didn't think anyone was listening, but it never hurt to be careful. "Sitrep, over?"

"Wolf 1-2, Wolf 2 Actual. Wolf 2 in position. Two hostiles, incapacitated and restrained," SSgt. Mathias said.

"Copy, Wolf 2 Actual. Wolf 1-2 to Handler. The dogs are in the kennel, over."

"Copy that, Wolf 1-2," Starbuck responded. "Handler moving into position, over."

"Copy. Over and out."

"Let's move it, Marines," Fischer ordered. "Don't want to get beat to the punch. Wenzler, you're on point."

The blonde haired poster-boy Wenzler nodded. He crept down the corridor, his rubber boots making next to no noise on the metal deck. Wenzler leaned slightly around each corner, scanning for potential threats.

Wolf 1 was fortunate, almost making it to the entry point without seeing any prisoners. Pike was just beginning to thank the Lords of Kobol when Collins, who was the rearguard, made a low, but still audible _fffft_! noise.

"Hostiles!" Collins whispered sharply. The squad pressed up against the wall, bayonets sliding out of their sheaths. Collins held up two fingers, indicating two prisoners, then tapped his arm once. No firearms, then.

Sykes, who was closed to Collins, slid next to him, and waited for the tell-tale red jump suits of Colonial inmates. As soon as they saw the red swinging sleeves of the prisoners, Sykes and Collins sprang, covering the prisoners' mouths and pressing their bayonets against their throats. Pike ripped two pieces of tape from a roll in his gear and put one over each of the prisoners mouths while Varrick secured their hands with a zip strip, a plastic set of disposable handcuffs with notches for easy locking and almost impossible opening.

"All clear, Sarge," Wenzler said. Fischer left PFC Alex to guard the prisoners, and ordered his squad to move out. Wolf 1 proceeded the rest of the way to the bulkhead that they would breach though, stacking up against it and waiting for the orders that would never come.

Lt. Emma "Sweetness" Jones sat, bored to tears in the seat of her Raptor. She had dropped a squad of Marines to free Capt. Adama and other hostages from Tom Zarek. So far, the most exiting part of this mission had been weaving through the other ships in the fleet. Sweetness tried to remind herself that hostage situations weren't supposed to be fun, but still, she wished there was something to do besides sit and listen to radio chatter.

"_Wolf 1 is in position, Handler. Awaiting your go, over._"

"_Sure likes like a lot of em down there, Wolf 2 Actual._"

"_Check out that chick, Twinam! She's even more butch than you are! Glory be, I didn't think it was possible._"

"_Can it, Profile, you needle-dicked asshole_."

"_Handler confirms, Wolf 1 Actual. Ready to take the shot._"

Sweetness wished that her ECO, Crashdown, wasn't such a dull prick. It would have been better to bring a Cylon then him. At least they talked.

"_This is Wolf 2-4. Got a 74-niner developing. Specialist Henderson is down, repeat Henderson is down._"

A 749? That was Colonial code for a friendly being shot. This just got serious.

"_Shit! Handler, we need to move in before the situation escalates._"

"_Wolf 2 Actual, Wolf 2-2. Captain Adama has just disarmed and shot prisoner_. _He's got Zarek by the balls, if I may say._"

"_Come on Lee, take out that son of a bitch_." Sweetness actually recognized that voice, the only one that wasn't a Marine. Starbuck. "_Gods frak it, he's not going to. Starbuck to all Wolves. Stand by to enter on my mark. 4-3-2..."_

There was a muffled shot on the comm channel, followed by a colorful outburst from Starbuck.

"_Dammit Lee! What are you doing!?!_"

Wenzler planted a small G-4 charge on the hatch, while Collins stood by with two flashbang grenades. When the door blew off it's heavy hinges, Collins would toss in the flashbangs, as would someone from Wolf 2. The Marines would then enter and disarm or kill as many prisoners as necessary before they surrendered. It was called a "Shock n' Rock", textbook room clearing maneuver.

"Ready to go, Sgt. Fischer," Pike said. He readied himself to run into the room in a blaze of 10mm gunfire.

Three levels above them, Starbuck fired a single shot at Zarek.

"_Dammit Lee! What are you doing!?!_"

"Frak!" Fischer said angrily. "She frakking missed! Wenzler, blow that frakking door, now! Wolf 1 Actual to Wolf 2, go go go!"

The charge exploded the hatch inward, and 1st Squad poured through it. Pike snapped up his C-3. "Don't move! Nobody move! Colonial Marines!" One prisoner swung a shoe (Of all the bloody things! Pike thought) and was rewarded with a love tap from Pike's carbine. The woman clutched her nose, which was bleeding profusely.

Capt. Adama held up a hand; the other was holding a pistol on Zarek, the 5.7x28mm M-6. "Marines! Don't shoot. The situation is under control. Do you still have a death wish, Zarek? Ready to leave this world?"

Zarek looked defiantly at Apollo. "Yes."

"Too bad. Cause this is what you're gonna do. You're gonna tell your men to help us get that water off the moon. They're gonna work for their points. And they're gonna earn their freedom. And then, then you're gonna get your elections. You were right abou democracy and consent of the people. I believe in those things. And We're going to have em. And you can have em too. Or you can have this bullet. Your call."

Pike had no idea what Adama was talking about, and could only conclude that the Captain had gone quite mad. Still, he did outrank all of them, and Pike lowered his carbine when Adama told him to.

"Control of the ship will be given to the prisoners," Apollo explained loudly enough for all the Marines to hear him. "We're going back to _Galactica_. All of us."

"Are you effing kidding me?" Profile shouted from his balcony. "After all this planning, that cramped flight over here, and the beautiful execution of said plan, we're just going leave? Just like that? With bloody convicts in command of their own ship? Are you FRAKKING kidding me?!?" SSgt. Mathias said something to him, and he calmed down, but not before kicking a prisoner in the shin, hard.

Sykes and Collins picked up the wounded Spc. Henderson, after checking to make sure that the wound wasn't serious. Pike felt a pang of grief for his sister, Sam. Henderson reminded him of her a lot, with her round face and long hair. Satisfied that she wouldn't die on the ride back to the ship, Sykes and Collins hauled her to Raptor 1. They were followed by Captain Adama and 1st Squad.

The flight back to the last battlestar was less than enjoyable. Pike felt a growing feeling of distrust in Adama, one that was sure to be in the other men as well. He had once respected the man as a good pilot and a good leader, but now he couldn't help but feeling like Adama was a pushover. Maybe he'd done it to stop a bloodbath. But didn't he think that the Marines were able to understand the Fleet's desperate need for water? Nah. Everyone assumed that all jarheads were idiots.

As Pike stepped out off the Raptor's troop bay, he figured he could always visit Franco in Sickbay. He'd complain and milk his wound for all it was worth, but Franco usually cracked jokes at the right time. Pike barely felt the tap on his shoulder. It was the pilot, Sweetness.

"Hey, Marine," she said, cutting a grin. "I'm off rotation in a couple of hours. Care to by me a drink?"

Franco forgotten, Pike couldn't help but grin back. "As a matter of fact, I'm probably going to get some R and R soon. Meet you here?"

"Two hours?"

"Sounds good."

For Cpl. Joe Pike, things were starting to look up.

A/N: Kudos to Wes for reviewing, So say we all. Anyway, later chapters should actually deliver in terms of action...we all know that first season was mostly space combat and Cylon conspiracies.


End file.
